


Fail Not

by BombshellBlondie



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Gen, oswald von riegan loves his grandson and that is a FACT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:15:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27614017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BombshellBlondie/pseuds/BombshellBlondie
Summary: Oswald von Riegan is a lonely old man with a stone heart, a runaway daughter, and a dead son.Claude von Riegan is a pain in his ass and blessing from the Goddess.
Relationships: Claude von Riegan & Oswald von Riegan | Claude von Riegan's Grandfather
Comments: 14
Kudos: 80
Collections: Quality Fics





	Fail Not

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't tag major character death because, like, we all know what happens. But just FYI yeah Claude's grandpa definitely dies in this fic

“No,” said Oswald, pointedly.

“What? Why _not_?” Claude protested. “I have the Crest of Riegan, what else do I need?”

The Duke Riegan dipped his pen in its inkwell without even bothering to look up from his papers. This proposed trade deal with Sreng was a mess, and his grandson, standing at the head of his desk distracting him, was not making it any easier to decipher. “Failnaught isn’t a toy, Claude. You’re too young, you don’t have enough experience in life—or in combat—to wield it,” he said.

“I _know_ it’s not a toy, I’m not a kid--”

The old man sighed, setting down his pen. “You are _barely_ seventeen. You’re not allowed to wield it until you are mature enough to understand what it _costs_ ,” he said, voice wearing thin. “If you attempt to use Failnaught without a proper respect for the power it holds, it could kill you."

“I respect it plenty! It’s one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen!” the boy whined _._

“That is _exactly_ why I don’t want you touching it.”

In the year since they’d begun exchanging letters and four months since he’d first arrived in Derdriu, Oswald had come to realize that his grandson should have been an actor. He had several personas that he seemed to change in and out of as easily as changing clothes, fitting them to each situation as one would choose one outfit for hunting and another for dinner. The most genuine one was simply Khalid, the bright, inquisitive, somewhat spoiled teenage prince that only seemed to come out when it was just the two of them. Another was Claude the Charmer, a witty and outgoing persona he put on for banquets and dinners and practically any occasion in which he interacted with the public.

The third, and final of the ones Oswald had been able to recognize, was Claude the Negotiator. This was the face he had the most trouble maintaining. Eventually he would hit a wall, and that mask would fall off to be replaced by one of the other two. That inexperience did not stop him from practicing it.

“You brought me here to be your heir, didn’t you? How am I supposed to do that without learning to use our family’s relic?”

The Duke sighed once again. It didn’t matter how many arguments Claude had lined up for him; Oswald von Riegan did not raise two teenagers with an iron fist just to lose a debate with a third. “I am not dead yet, and you have _many_ more pressing things to learn before you’ll be ready to fully inherit House Riegan,” he said. “You’ll find diplomacy and negotiation to be of far more use to you than a dusty old bow, anyway.”

“But I’m _already_ studying diplomacy and negotiation—I’ve been sitting in on all the Round Table meetings, I’ve read every book on history and government that you _have_ ,” said Claude, “a _nd_ I’m keeping up with my combat practice. I can do more.”

“I disagree. If anything, you’ve just told me you’re already spreading yourself too thin.”

Claude pouted, and there was the wall. This was where Claude the Negotiator always slipped away, leaving a frustrated young prince in his place. For all his insistence that he was studying well, that he was prepared to take on more, there were blind spots like this, things they would have to work on if he were ever to sit at the head of the Round Table. Claude was wise beyond his years, but a seventeen-year-old was a seventeen-year-old.

“Come onnnn, please?” he begged.

“ _No,”_ Oswald said, digging in his heels. The conversation was wearing him thin, Claude’s utter refusal to give up even more so.

And yet, the boy persisted. “ _Plea—“_

The proverbial bow snapped. Oswald stood and slammed his hands on his desk. His inkwell jumped with the impact and tipped, ink spiling from the bottle along with the next words from his mouth.

“ _Claude von Riegan_ ,” he bellowed, “I will be _damned_ if I lose another child to hubris!”

Tendrils of ink seeped through the wooden grain of the desk like black veins. All else in the study seemed frozen in time, caught in the heavy tension between grandfather and grandson. The outburst had startled Claude, but it hadn’t pushed his resolve. He stood his ground, held his grandfather’s oppressive gaze with his own. The last time Oswald had found himself here, staring down those defiant green eyes, would be the last time he’d see them for twenty years. That thought grabbed him by the heart, squeezed, and dragged it down into his stomach.

As if sensing his weakness, Claude broke the silence. “Hubris, huh? That’s what we’re calling Count Gloucester, now?”

Oswald sighed heavily and slumped back into his chair. The ink well remained on its side, and he didn’t bother to correct it. All the ink had spilled out already, staining everything in its path. Barely above a breath, he said, “You certainly are your mother’s son.”

“And you’re just as stubborn as she said you’d be,” said Claude, after a beat. Oswald chuckled internally at the irony of Tiana calling _him_ stubborn. He supposed they all were—all three generations of them. Riegan’s blood carried in it the spirit of a bull. Their Crest refused to let their bodies die, but it was that stubborn spirit that refused to let them _lose_.

This battle, Oswald might just lose anyway. The blood that ran through Claude’s veins was younger, ran hotter and pulsed stronger than Oswald’s had in years.

"Look, I get where you’re coming from, and I appreciate the concern,” Claude the Negotiator continued, “but you don’t know what my life was like before I came here. You don’t know what experiences I have.”

“Perhaps I don't,” Oswald relented. “But I know you are self-confident, often to the point of arrogance, and arrogance does not mix well with the power of a Hero’s Relic.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” and there was the spoilt prince again. “Why can't you trust me to know what I’m capable of? What do I have to do to prove myself to you?”

It wasn’t the first time he’d asked that question. He’d asked it before, in the first of the letters they exchanged after news of Godfrey’s death had floated eastward and reached the Almyran capital. Khalid had reached out, without his mother’s permission, though a private messenger and a letter. Two-and-a-half months after Godfrey’s death, Oswald was still deep in mourning. Khalid’s letter sat on his desk for a week as he struggled with how to reply, if at all. There was the chance that it was a cruel joke, though to what end he couldn’t say, preying upon a lonely old man desperate for an heir. Ultimately, Oswald had decided he had nothing left to lose. He sent a reply, through another private messenger, to this possibly fake half-Almyran prince with Riegan blood running through his veins, and waited.

They traded letters for months afterwards. Prince Khalid, whether he was Tiana’s or not, was bright, charming, and no doubt an excellent orator, if his written word was anything to go by. He was the youngest of five, but his mother’s only. He had a deep interest in history and government. Oswald sent him a book on the history of Foldan along with one letter, expecting it to keep him busy for a while. Within a week, Khalid had written back to him to say he’d finished it, accompanied by a mile-long list of questions. He maintained that thirst for knowledge even after arriving in Derdriu, tearing through the library at record speed, trying to learn as much as he could as quickly as possible.

What the boy just never seemed to understand—or perhaps, rather, what Oswald never managed to properly explain—was that he had nothing to prove. Even before he’d shown up in Derdriu with his mother’s eyes, with Godfrey’s curls and Riegan’s Crest, Oswald would have been proud to call such an intelligent young man his heir. Claude lacked nothing but years, and Oswald had far too few of his own left to justify a slow transfer of power.

He was afraid, though. Goddess, was he afraid. One foot in the grave, and Claude was all he had left. He could not protect him forever, but he would try. Even if all he could do was delay the inevitable for a little longer, he would try.

“…I will tell you what,” Oswald peeled his draft of the trade deal off the desk and gave it a quick shake to flick off the excess spilled ink, “take this, read it, then come back in two hours and tell me what’s wrong with it.”

Claude took it from him and scanned the page. “What does a trade deal with Sreng have to do with Failnaught?”

“Absolutely nothing,” said Oswald. He stood and rounded his desk to place a firm hand between Claude’s shoulders, nudging him out the door. “Go read it anyway.”

“But--”

Not entirely free of guilt, Oswald shut the study doors in his face.

Claude was back in two hours on the dot, knocking incessantly on the doors of the study before Oswald finally relented and let him back in. He held himself confidently as ever, and the documents in his hands were now littered with his own hurried handwriting. Oswald grimaced. They’d have to work on that, as well.

“We’re not agreeing to nearly enough exports,” Claude said, as if it were a fact. “Access to our fishing surplus like you’ve already written is fine, but Sreng is mostly desert—their agricultural resources are pretty thin, and with the north of Faerghus being nearly as barren, along with the fact that they don’t get along diplomatically, the Leicester Alliance has the potential to place ourselves as their main source of grain and beef. They would be far more willing to pay tariffs on any exports of our surplus than the Kingdom or the Empire, as well, seeing as they can’t get them easily from other sources.”

Oswald stroked his beard thoughtfully, “Interesting. As you said, though, Sreng lacks substantial natural resources. What shall we do about the resulting trade imbalance?”

“I’m not sure a trade imbalance is such a bad thing—especially since it’s in our favor. That said, we can always offer to increase our imports of ores and salt in exchange,” Claude explained. “We can’t discount luxury goods, either—plenty of Alliance merchants would be eager to get their hands on Sreng ceramics, jewelry, or other handicrafts to set them apart from their competitors at market.”

“You think there’s a market for such luxury goods?”

“I don’t see why not,” Claude said confidently. “The Alliance is in a good position, economically. This year’s harvest was good, and there haven’t been any wars or major conflicts in a long time. The nobility aren’t the only ones with money anymore, many prominent merchant families are building wealth and have more disposable income than ever before.”

Oswald raised an eyebrow. “You learned all of this in just two hours?”

Claude shook his head. “Not just two hours. I told you, I’ve been studying policy and history for _months_ , I’ve been sitting in on the Round Table negotiations, I’ve seen the reports and invoice—wait, uh, actually, scratch that last one; I _definitely_ have not been reading the confidential documents you leave unattended on your desk when you go to the bathroom.”

For the first time in what seemed like _ages,_ Oswald laughed. It was almost a foreign feeling, the way it bubbled up from his chest and burst forth so suddenly. Briefly, he wondered what was even so funny about it, anyway. Maybe it was just Claude’s rugged optimism, his youthful confidence and cocksure attitude, the way he spoke well beyond his years. Perhaps Godfrey and Tiana had both been so bright when they were his age. Perhaps failing to recognize that is why he, ultimately, lost them both. But even for all his failings as a father, he had been given this as his second chance. This boy, with his daughter’s eyes and a stranger’s nose, was a pain in his ass and a gift from the Goddess.

“Okay,” he said, taking the papers from him, “I am impressed. You put together a very thorough analysis. I’ll be sure to mention your assistance when I review this with Edmund next week.”

Claude followed him on his heels back to his desk, eyes bright and expectant. “So? Can I use Failnaught now?”

“No,” Oswald said, for the third time, resolute despite the deafening groan that ripped from Claude’s throat. “Thank you for your help. Now, I suggest you go find something else productive to do with your afternoon, because standing here and whining will get you no further.”

Finally, with heavy feet, Claude stomped out of his grandfather’s study and left him in silence.

\---

The Almyran royal palace was built from stone. Its sturdy floors and walls were covered in colorful tiles laid in intricate patterns. The ceilings, arched in geometric layers, amplified the sound of every voice, every whisper, every careful footstep taken to swipe a midnight snack from the kitchens in the middle of the night. After many years of practice, Prince Khalid had perfected the art of moving through its halls unseen by the late-night patrols who, if they caught the young prince out of bed, would deliver him straight back to his room.

The Riegan Manor was smaller. It had fewer guards, its walls did not echo every sound between them, and yet it posed an entirely different challenge: floorboards.

Every other step ran the risk of announcing one’s presence to the entire manor, and there was nothing that could be done to stop it. No matter how lightly Claude stepped, the slightest pressure in the wrong spot would cause the wooden floors to groan under his weight. It took _weeks_ of roaming the halls during the day, taking note of every invisible spot where the floors would creak for Claude to finally, _finally_ , map a path that would take him from his bedroom to his grandfather’s study with the least amount of sound possible.

Starting at the end of the hallway leading to the study, three-hundred years’ worth of Duke and Duchess Riegans observed his careful path. The hallway had unnerved Claude since he first set foot in the estate months ago. Three hundred years’ worth of portraits, and not in a single one of them was the subject smiling. Every time Claude walked down that hallway, he felt as if he were being judged before a panel of his ancestors. Sometimes, he felt as if they didn’t like what they saw. If that were the case, and if their ghosts still haunted the walls of the manor, Claude would have liked to formally invite them to kiss his ass. When they put his picture on that wall, he decided, he was going to be smiling.

Creepy as the portraits were, Claude could not deny their usefulness as landmarks for the parts of the floor that squeaked. Hang right at Duke Chadwick’s portrait, left at Duke Oswin’s. Lengthen your stride and skip the boards running perpendicular to Duchess Bristol _entirely_ , then hug the wall from Duke Kamden to Hayes. At the end of the hall of portraits, just before the original Duke Riegan in all his old dead glory, follow the exact middle of the floor until you reach the doors of the study.

The doors creaked as they opened—that was unavoidable. Claude held his breath as he navigated the dark room, lit only by the light of a crescent moon peeking through its windows. When he finally reached his target, hung proud above the fireplace mantel, he let out that breath in a sigh of relief. Then slowly, carefully, as if the movement of his arms through the air might make a sound, he reached up and lifted the bow, lifted Failnaught, from its dock.

There was less weight to it than he’d expected based on its size. It didn’t seem to be made of metal, or wood, or any instantly recognizable material, for that matter—perhaps bone? He ran a finger along the string to test the resistance. It was taught, strong, but seemed easy enough to draw. For the hell of it, Claude squared up, lifted the bow in his left hand, posed his right as if he were nocking an invisible arrow, pulled back the string, and—

And dropped it, or rather _threw_ it from his hold as if burned when the bow suddenly began to glow in the dark, hot orange and so bright it lit the room as well as an oil lamp. Claude stared, frozen by both the sight and the sound it made as it clattered to the ground, watched as the light faded out and left the room dark once again.

The rest of the house remained silent.

The next time, Failnaught began to glow the moment Claude got his hand around it. It looked like molten iron, and Claude noticed, with morbid curiosity, that it was slightly warm. The bow thrummed in his grip as if it were alive, as if it had a _pulse_ , and Claude’s curiosity was only multiplied. He had to try it out, nock a real arrow on it and see how well it shot.

Bow in hand, Claude retraced his steps back through the study and down the Hall of Dead Riegans on his way to the shooting gallery. He’d only shoot once, he reasoned, maybe twice, then bring it right back up to the study and put it back in its place on the mantel. His grandfather would be none the wiser. He treaded carefully down the stairs (skipping the third step from the bottom, which always groaned terribly) and was halfway through the back parlor before his grandfather’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Now what have you got there?” he asked, emerging from the door to the east dining room as if he’d been waiting there just to catch him.

Claude spun around and held the bow behind his back, but his frame wasn’t enough to conceal Failnaught’s sheer size _or_ its orange glow. A quirk of his grandfather’s eyebrow was all it took. Claude, wise enough to know when he’d been had, held the bow out towards his grandfather with both hands in surrender, head hung in shame. Oswald took it from him carefully and inspected it as its orange glow began to fade.

“I’m sorry,” he said lowly, “I know you said no.”

“You deliberately disobeyed me,” said Oswald, and Claude winced. He heard his mother in those words, and realized that this whole time she’d only been borrowing them. They were coming directly from the source, now, and every wrinkle on his grandfather’s face told a story of a time he’d said the same thing, years and years ago.

Claude was prepared to be punished, grounded, maybe even sent all the way home. What he hadn’t expected was for his grandfather to sigh heavily and... acquiesce.

“Of course, you did. You'd think with my experience, I’d know by now that the best way to get a young man to do something is to tell him he can’t.”

Claude decided to hazard a glance up. He watched as his grandfather turned the bow in his hands. The light hadn’t faded completely, but it was considerably duller, washed out and pale.

“Why doesn’t it glow as brightly for you?” he asked.

“It did, once,” Oswald spoke as if he were somewhere far away. “Perhaps it’s decided I’ve neglected it for too long.”

The smart choice would have been to scurry back to his room while the old man was lost in the past and hope he’d forget his sins by morning. But as it did so often, Claude’s curiosity won out over self-preservation.

“You personify them—the relics,” he observed. “Not just you right now, but the books I’ve read, everything, they talk about them as if they have minds of their own. And when I was holding it, I could feel it, it was like it was _alive_.”

Oswald hummed, rubbing his white beard thoughtfully. He was still somewhere else, in some other time, as he was so often. Claude had gotten used to being looked at as if his grandfather were seeing through him, as if he were a ghost of his uncle—or his mother—and not a person in his own right. Normally, Claude would be angry about that.

Tonight, his grandfather didn’t give him the time. “Would you really like to take it for a spin?”

Claud balked. “Wh— _me_? Right now?”

“I don’t see anyone else here I could be referring to,” he said. “Come on, let’s go to the gallery.”

Gripped by disbelief, Claude stood stuck in place as his grandfather strode off towards the back door. He’d thought he was in _trouble_ , that he’d be accused of stealing and kicked out, or _worse_. Was this a trick? A joke? Some kind of setup for an elaborate punishment meant to catch him off guard?

“Claude? Are you coming?”

Tricks be damned, Claude ran after the sound of his grandfather’s voice and followed him on his heels all the way to the gallery.

\--

Claude was flying, back astride his beloved white wyvern, Failnaught in hand. The wyvern roared triumphantly before dropping into a deep dive, and Claude jumped. Time slowed down as he lined up his mark. One target, three arrows. One after another, they struck the bullseye, and Claude was left with only a moment to appreciate his work before he had to situate himself atop his steed again. Below him, people in the stadium were cheering—his mother, his father, his siblings, and his grandfather all looked up at him with pride. “ _Kha-lid!”_ they chanted, _“Kha-lid! Kha-lid! Kha-lid!”_

“Claude? Claude. _Khalid_.”

Claude blinked the sleep out of his eyes. His grandfather leant over him, somehow looking equal parts concerned and amused, one large hand closing his shoulder in a solid grip.

“You missed breakfast,” he said, “and lunch. I figured I should wake you up for dinner.”

Suddenly, Claude was wide awake. “What time is it?”

“Nearly six o’ clock in the evening,” his grandfather said, and whatever concern had furrowed his brow moments ago seemed to have been eased now that Claude was fully conscious. “You’ve been asleep for, oh, eighteen hours or so.”

“ _Eighteen hours_?” Claude sat up with a start, throwing the hand off his shoulder. “Eighteen—how did I sleep for _eighteen hours_?”

“It can happen,” he said, now _blatantly_ amused. “In fact, I expected it to. Very rarely does a person’s first time wielding a Hero’s Relic leave them with their energy reserves more than depleted.”

Claude’s sleep-hazy mind tracked back to the night before, to loosing arrows on Failnaught while his grandfather stood by, observing. After exactly half an hour, the old man had clapped a hand on his shoulder and demanded the bow back, despite Claude’s begging for another thirty minutes. He’d relented, finally, and had spent the entire march back to his bedroom grumbling about how hard it would be to sleep after such an experience. Now, Claude didn’t even remember his head hitting the pillow.

“ _Failnaught_ made me sleep for eighteen hours?” he asked.

“More or less. I tried to tell you before, but you seem to learn best through experience,” Oswald said. “Our relationship with the Heroes’ Relics is not one-sided, Claude. They lend us their immense power and allow us to do great things, but in return, they take some of our life force for themselves.”

The morbid dread that ran up Claude’s spine at those words only fueled his curiosity. “Life-sucking weapons, huh? Aren’t the Heroes Relics supposed to have been _gifts_ from the goddess? What kind of benevolent goddess would give her people something that feeds off their energy? Doesn’t that sound more like _dark_ magic?”

Oswald paused, then shook his head. “You always have the strangest questions...”

“I don’t see what’s so strange about them,” said Claude. “Are the really that strange, or are they just questions _you’ve_ never thought to ask before?”

“Dinner is in thirty minutes,” he said, rather than entertaining that line of questioning any further. “Wash up before you come down. Having just rolled out of bed is no excuse for showing up to dinner looking like it.”

Deflecting, as always. Claude let out a frustrated sigh once his grandfather left the room. It was no wonder his mother hadn’t gotten along with him. The two really were too damn similar.

_“Don’t worry about it, my love, go play.”_

_“I will tell you when you’re older, Khalid.”_

_“Take care where you stick that nose of yours—someday it might get chopped off.”_

_Hasn’t been chopped off yet_ , he thought, but his mother’s voice still echoed through his head as he got dressed. If the history of Fodlan was a puzzle, the Heroes Relics were a piece that just didn’t fit, as if it had come from a different set... no, as if someone had taken a knife and cut off bits of it. Yet, everyone still seemed to think it was whole, no one else seemed to notice the way the cut-up piece didn’t line up with the others. Perhaps it was his perspective that gave him the clarity others in Fodlan seemed to lack. Perhaps there were pieces to Almyra’s puzzle with the same problem, that Claude _himself_ was blind to.

History was messy—some of it impossible to prove—full of human errors in perspective and written exclusively by the victors. But it was that very thing which so held his fascination.

By the time Claude arrived at the dinner table, the plates were already set out. His grandfather sat at the head of the table, own food untouched, waiting. Claude took his usual spot, to his right, suddenly hungrier than he’d ever been in his life. Before he could apologize for being late, Oswald spoke up.

“I have a proposition for you.”

Claude cocked his head, the growling in his stomach momentarily forgotten. “A proposition?”

His grandfather nodded. “You had intended to enroll in the Officer’s Academy at Garreg Mach, yes?”

“Yes, sir,” Claude responded, the formal address tacked on for good measure. “I mean, I still have to take the entrance exam, but...”

“I will see to it that you are enrolled,” his grandfather said, “and if you graduate— _with good grades..._ Failnaught is yours.”

Claude sat up straight, on the edge of his chair, wide-eyed. “That’s it? That’s all I have to do? Go to school?”

“I believe I also said you had to get good grades.”

“Yeah, sure, easy—but _really_? That’s _all_ I have to do?”

Oswald shook his head. “Do you need yet _another_ lesson in reigning in that ego of yours? The Officer’s Academy is Fodlan’s most esteemed educational institution. You will be competing with the best and brightest young people from all over the continent.”

“No offense to Fodlan’s best and brightest, but I’m not exactly intimidated,” said Claude. “Did you attend when you were my age? What’s it like?”

“I am an alumnus, yes, as is your mother and as was your uncle,” Oswald said. “You’d be hard pressed to find a noble of any worth who did _not_ attend the Officer’s Academy, in fact. It’s as good a school there is for military training, and the opportunity to meet and mingle with the sons and daughters of all Fodlan’s noble houses will be an invaluable experience for you as the next Duke of Riegan.”

“Is the food good?”

“You will be fed.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s not what you should be most concerned with, either,” Oswald chided. “The Academy is run by the Church of Seiros; there will usually be a fair amount of questions on the Serios faith included in the entrance exam. You are already at a disadvantage. If I were you, I would spend the next few weeks brushing up on my saints and scriptures before taking the exam.”

“You have a copy of the Book of Seiros in the library,” said Claude. “I’ve read it. There’s Cichol and Cethleann and Indech and… Ma… Mich… uh…”

“Macuil,” Oswald said with a smirk. “Sounds to me like you’d better read it again.”

\---

Claude never graduated.

War fell on Fodlan just in time to cancel final exams. Oswald spent all of Lone Moon at the Round Table or in his office, sending letters that wouldn't receive replies. The Church of Seiros was asking the students to fight. Oswald was irate. He had half a mind to hike up that damn mountain and take his grandson home himself, but his country, on the brink of war, needed its leader in Derdriu. So, he wrote, and he waited, and he argued with the rest of the Round Table while their children were stuck at Garreg Mach as the Imperial army drew nearer and nearer.

Claude never graduated, but he came home.

For the first time, there in the courtyard of Riegan Manor under a blanket of fog, Oswald hugged him. He’d filled out since he left for the academy last spring, become less wiry and more solid. No longer a boy, but a young man. Even so, when he lifted his arms to return his grandfather’s embrace, they were shaking.

“Have you told my mom?” was the first thing he asked.

When Oswald pulled back to look down at him, he noticed that it was not only his build that had changed. The braid of hair he kept at his temple had been sliced clean off. Oswald didn’t know what that meant, didn't know if it had anything to do with the way his eyes seemed so much duller than they used to, but it was not the time to ask.

“Have _you_?” he asked instead.

Claude shook his head.

“Better she hears it from you than from whatever hearsay gets over the mountains,” he said. “Go write to her. We will talk later.”

Claude nodded and headed inside. Oswald stayed outside and watched the footmen unload his things. He’d come home with far less than what he left with. A small bag of books when he’d left with an entire trunk full; a single quiver of arrows; a bow in a leather sheath decorated with Almyran script. Whatever had happened at Garreg Mach, it had forced him to leave in a hurry.

At dinner that night, Claude told him everything while his silverware shook in his fingers. Some of it was unbelievable—an army in the thousands a great white dragon on the front lines. Perhaps most unbelievably, all of his classmates had survived. His professor, whom Oswald had not met but had only heard good things about, had not.

He told him about the young emperor, how he knew her, how he considered her a friend.

“I don’t want to fight her,” he said, quietly. “Part of me thinks she might be right.”

He was nearly vibrating with how rapidly he bounced his knee, as if he were expecting some sort of retribution for saying such a thing. A month ago, he might have been right to expect as much. Oswald von Riegan was never devout, but he was a nobleman. He had respected the Church, worshiped the Goddess and the Saints along with the rest of the nobility. But he had sent his grandson to them to _learn_ , not to be used with his classmates—with all the Alliance’s other children—as front-line soldiers.

“We may not have to,” said Oswald. “The Alliance has not yet chosen a side. We could remain neutral.”

The comment seemed to do very little to reassure him. Claude only gave a small sound of anxious acknowledgement and continued to bounce his knee under the table. Despite how hungry he must have been after a long day of flying, he’d barely touched his food. 

Oswald set down his own silverware and folded his hands. “I’d like you to come to the Round Table with me tomorrow,” he said. “You and your classmates are the only ones who have seen the Empire’s army up close. Your thoughts on their military capacity, not to mention your personal knowledge of the emperor, could offer a uniquely valuable perspective.”

Claude, normally _ecstatic_ at the prospect of attending the Round Table as a participant, was uncharacteristically subdued as he nodded.

\--

That night, for the first time in twenty years, Oswald wrote to his daughter.

_Dear Tiana,_

_I do not expect you to respond to me. To be perfectly honest, I do not even expect you to read this. I forfeit my right to your acknowledgement long ago. However, on the chance you see fit to allow me just a moment of your time, there is something I wish for you to know._

_Your son, your dear Khalid, is the brightest young man I have ever had the pleasure to know. He has brought a light back to House Riegan that I did not know was missing, that I have not seen since you and your brother still lived within these walls. After how terribly I failed both you and Godfrey, I cannot blame you for trying to keep him from me; it is natural to want to protect something so precious. I consider myself incredibly lucky to have been allowed to meet him at all. He reminds me of you in so many ways, from his eyes to his mannerisms to the way that he shoots—even were he to be without a Crest, I would recognize him based on his likeness to you alone._

_I am sure you have read his letter before reading mine. If so, then he has just shared some solemn news with you. Fodlan, I am afraid, is at war. Leicester has not yet chosen a side. Were it up to me, I would send him back to you, without hesitation, so that he could be safe. But he is a young man now, eighteen years old and full of fire. If he does not want to go, if he wants to stay and fight for this new life he’s built for himself, I cannot stop him. What I can do, will do, is everything in my power as both his grandfather and the Duke of Leicester to protect him. It is not much, but this, at least, I can promise you._

_If you have read this far, if you have by some miracle allowed me this much of your time, then there is only one last thing I wish to say: I love you, my daughter. My greatest regret is that I did not let you know as much while I had you here with me. Please give my regards to His Majesty and allow me to thank you both for giving me the gift of a second chance through your son. I love him as I love you, as I loved Godfrey. My only hope is that this time, I have done enough to show it._

_With love,_

_Oswald von Riegan_

_\--_

Oswald was not the only one to come to the Round Table the next morning with backup. Gloucester’s boy was there as well, and he shared a look with Claude that was difficult to decipher. He was taller than his father now, long and lean, towering over the rest of the room. But for all the boy’s presence in stature, for the length of the deliberations he was decidedly... quiet. Claude was the opposite. He spoke boldly, and Oswald let him. He held his ground. He didn’t bounce his knee. Claude the Negotiator had arrived at the Round Table in perfect form.

For the most part, Lorenz corroborated Claude’s account of the battle at Garreg Mach. Emperor Edelgard had come with an initial force of perhaps three-to-five hundred soldiers, only for thousands more to arrive as backup.

“There was a sizable force of demonic beasts, as well,” Claude said, and Lorenz nodded. “It’s hard to say where she got them from, or who was controlling them. Whatever the case, it’s obvious that she’s been raising this army quietly for months, maybe years. We can’t afford to write her off just because she’s young.”

Gloucester Senior looked right past Claude to ask, “Exactly _what_ course of action is House Riegan proposing?”

Claude looked back at his grandfather, asking for permission. Oswald nodded.

“I suggest we maintain neutrality,” Claude announced.

“ _Neutrality_?” Gloucester balked. “You would have us do _nothing_ , Oswald?”

“Remaining neutral is not necessarily the same thing as doing nothing,” said Claude, holding his ground. Gloucester was still looking past him. “We reinforce our defenses and observe, see how this plays out. The Leicester Alliance has no obligation to _either_ side of this war. Why throw our lot in so soon and risk betting on the wrong horse?”

“They have _already_ trodden over us—they brazenly crossed Myrddin en route to the monastery!” he told Oswald. “You are saying we should take this lying down?”

Finally, Oswald spoke. “ _I_ am not saying anything, Gloucester. Did no one ever teach you to look at the person who is speaking to you?”

“Am I _not_? Pardon me, I thought perhaps you were having the boy speak your words like a _puppet,”_ Gloucester sneered. “In that case, allow me to amend my statement: I am not arguing war policy with a _child_.”

“Then do not argue; you’d save us all some time,” Oswald countered. “Frankly, Gloucester, I couldn’t give less of a damn whether you think--”

“ _Enough!”_

Claude's voice echoed through the circular room. Finally, Gloucester looked at him.

“If you would _both_ let me finish,” he said, and Oswald sunk back into his chair, “yes, they had to cross over Myrddin to reach the monastery; I can’t deny that’s a bit of a bruise to our ego. But bruised egos aren’t enough reason to go to war, especially not with an enemy we haven’t properly evaluated yet. Not to mention, Garreg Mach is no longer occupied—the knights have fled to the Kingdom, the war front will likely move over there.”

“And you feel no obligation to send them assistance?” Edmund asked.

“We need to take care of our own first. We won’t be much help to the Kingdom if we lose half our forces by spreading ourselves too thin,” Claude said.

“Agreed,” Holst declared. “Claude is right, the only way we could afford to fight a two-front war is if we reallocated some of the troops from the Locket, and then we run the risk of fighting a _three-_ front war.”

Claude nodded in agreement, but Oswald did not miss the way he clenched his fist at his side.

“The Locket is fortified, and the Almyrans have been quiet lately,” Edmund argued. “We are going to have to pull troops to help defend Myrddin _regardless.”_

“This is all certainly easy for you to say, Edmund, safe up in your little corner of the continent as you are,” Countess Ordelia cut in. “You could not even provide a significant number of troops to defend the Locket, what stake would you even _have_ in an assault?”

Edmund fumed. “I _funded_ the _entire_ \--”

“Yes, yes, and we are all _eternally_ grateful for your deep pockets, Margrave,” she spit, “but I am not interested in ending up on the Empire’s bad side yet again. You all may do as you please, but you will _not_ be involving Ordelia if you plan to fight back against the young emperor and her army of—how many was it again, boys?”

Claude and Lorenz exchanged another glance. “Several thousand,” said Claude, “at least.”

“And _that_ was just those who were in _that_ particular battle,” Ordelia said, “to say nothing of what they have in reserve, or how many more they have amassed now that news of their first victory has spread.”

Edmund scoffed. “That kind of cowardice is _exactly_ what’s pushing Ordelia into decline!”

“ _Cowardice_?!”

Count Ordelia, who had until that point sat quietly at his wife’s side, rose with a slam of his hands on the table. “So _we_ are the cowards now, are we? Pray tell, Margrave, when the Empire was on our doorstep thirteen years ago where were _you_?” he cried, then turned to the rest of the table, passing an accusing finger through the air at all of them. “Where were _any_ of you, for that matter? Are we only an Alliance when one of _you_ needs the assistance, is that it?”

For the first time that morning, Claude seemed to fumble. “Count Ordelia, please--”

The Count raised a hand to stop him. “Claude, you are doing a remarkable job, and I truly believe you will make a fine leader of this Round Table,” he said, “but I was not speaking to you.”

Oswald, heart heavy, sighed. “What happened in Ordelia back then was a tragedy,” he said, “and one of my many regrets. There is no turning back the hands of time to fix it, no recovering what we... what you lost. If you desire a formal apology for our inaction--”

“We don’t want your _apologies_ , Oswald,” Count Ordelia said. “We want you to assure it never happens again. Inviting the ire of the Empire seems a great way to assure it _does_.”

“Hence why we are suggesting _neutrality_ ,” Oswald stressed.

“Oswald, you know very well that neutrality is not the same thing as refusing to take a side,” said Edmund. “It is allowing your side to be chosen for you.”

“Hence why we must decide now to side with the Empire,” Countess Ordelia reasserted. “They have already defeated the Knights of Seiros in one battle, and what sort of fight do we _really_ expect the Kingdom to put up? It’s common knowledge at this point, the whole country has been in decline since what happened in Duscur. Their regent is all but useless, can’t even keep rebellions from arising and bandits from running amok among his _own_ people. I’ll be surprised if they last until the end of the summer.”

“Are you really so insane as to suggest we turn our backs on the Goddess Herself?” Gloucester asked.

“The Goddess has already _lost_ , unless you think you could keep them from taking Myrddin again?” Ordelia countered. “I realize your pride was wounded by that little stunt, Victor, but Claude is right—hurt feelings are not enough reason to go to war against an enemy we have no hope of defeating.”

“That’s—that’s not exactly what I said,” said Claude.

Ordelia ignored him. “Think about it, Victor, if the Alliance goes to war against the Empire, we, but especially _you_ , are the ones holding the border. There’s no bridge in Ordelia big enough for an entire army to cross. If they want to get to Derdriu, they’ll be trampling you and Acheron first.”

From somewhere in the gallery, Acheron gulped. Gloucester sat back in his seat, brow furrowed in deep thought. Lorenz and Claude exchanged another look.

“Okay, look, no one is asking us to choose a side _yet_ ,” said Claude. “Edelgard doesn’t want to fight a two-front war any more than we do. As long as we don’t swing our stick at the hornet’s nest too soon, we’ll have a little time before we have to make any big decisions.”

“We reinforce our defenses to show we won’t be trifled with, but avoid going on the offense for the time being,” Holst agreed. “That seems to be the obvious plan for the short term, at least.”

A mixed wave of agreeable murmurs and displeased grumbles washed over the table and gallery alike. Oswald stood up, prompting Claude to finally sit down.

“Let us break for lunch here,” he said. “Continue the discussion internally until we regroup at two o’ clock. For now, this Round Table is dismissed.”

It was silent for another moment. Then, starting with the Round Table and rippling out among the minor lords and ladies in the gallery, the room began to clear with the sound of chairs scraping against the floor and hushed chatter. Oswald stood in place and silently watched them file out of the hall. Claude sat as if frozen in his chair next to him, perfectly still.

When the last of them had let the double doors shut behind them, Oswald brought his hand down on Claude’s shoulder and squeezed it gently. “I’m proud of you.”

Claude deflated like a balloon. “That was a disaster.”

“No, that was excellent,” Oswald said. “Aside from Ordelia’s outburst, which had _nothing_ to do with you, you kept things quite orderly.”

“The only person who agreed with us was Holst,” said Claude, “and I’m pretty sure Count Gloucester was trying to kill me telepathically.”

“Claude, even on its best days, this Round Table cannot agree on an appropriate tax for _cow manure_. I once got into a fist fight with Gloucester over _postage_ ,” Oswald said. “You managed to keep everything under control even in these dire circumstances. That was a _remarkable_ display of your leadership skills. I could not be any prouder to call you my heir, or my grandson.”

Another small moment of silence passed between them. Claude was still slumped in his chair, his shoulder still tense under Oswald’s hand and his brow still furrowed with worry. Even all the praise in the world could not change the fact that they were facing an era of strife not seen in generations. No matter which path he took, Claude’s rise to power would be scarred by this war. In a few years, Oswald would get to die, and Claude would have to keep living. The circle of life, the young left to clean up the messes of the old.

Oswald sighed, and squeezed Claude’s shoulder one more time.

“I’m going to give you Failnaught.”

Claude whipped his head around so quickly it was a wonder he didn’t break his own neck. “Y—what? Seriously? But I—I didn’t even graduate—”

“You did, just today,” said Oswald. “I told you, the leadership you displayed today rivaled—no, surpassed my own. You’ve grown up so much in the past year. If you’re going to lead the Alliance through such a tumultuous era, it’s only fair that I give you all the tools to do so.”

In an instant, Claude stood and threw his arms around his grandfather in a hug. He backed off just as suddenly, embarrassed, and offered a stiff bow instead. “I mean, thank you, sir. This is an honor. I promise won’t let you down.”

Oswald shook his head and pulled him back into the hug. “I know you won’t,” he said. “You never could.”

When Claude broke out of the hug again, his stomach grumbled audibly. “Well,” he said, “are you sure you don’t have any constructive criticism for me before lunch?”

“Hmm…” Oswald rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Grow a beard. It will make you look older and give your voice a little more weight.”

Claude laughed. “That’s it? Believe me, I’m already working on it.”

\---

The beard—damn it all—made Claude wait until his twentieth birthday before it finally started to come in properly, rather than as patchy whiskers that only served to make him look _younger_.

By that time, Oswald von Riegan was already on his death bed.

Hilda and Lorenz flanked him at the Duke’s bedside, the former squeezing his hand on his left, the latter keeping him steady on his right. Judith stood on the opposite side of the bed, mouth drawn in a tight line as she watched the healer do her best to keep him comfortable.

Claude’s words were caught in his throat. The sob building up just behind his tongue was hot like fire. If the words were going to come out, he was going to have to cry first. He didn’t want to cry. Claude von Riegan was, effectively, the Leader of the Alliance now. His country was at war. He did not have time to cry.

His grandfather saw him first, his lips nearly wrapped around a _“Kha”_ before he saw the rest of the room, too. Claude almost yelled at them all to leave. He was still working on getting that sob out of his throat, though, so instead he said nothing.

“Claude…” his grandfather said, finally. “Look at you…”

Hilda choked up a little beside him. For some reason, that helped Claude swallow his own sob.

“Yup,” he said, “here I am.”

His eyes passed over Hilda, then Lorenz, who stiffened a little beside him. “You’re very lucky,” he said, “the Alliance is very lucky.”

“I don’t feel lucky,” Claude choked.

“Why? Because an old man is dying?” Oswald rasped. “That’s what happens to old men. We die.”

Claude started to say something else, but his grandfather cut him off with a coughing fit. The healer scuttled about, frantically drawing another sigil above his chest. Oswald waved her off weakly as the coughing subsided.

“You _are_ lucky,” he repeated. “Look at you—two good friends to keep you steady. The Alliance is lucky to have the three of you in its future.”

Claude nodded. He didn’t say that the Alliance might not have a future. He didn’t say that the Imperial Army was almost through with conquering Faerghus. He didn’t say that they’d be on their doorstep next. None of this should have been new information for his grandfather. If he’d forgotten it, if the Goddess or the Gods or whoever was out there had allowed him the luxury of hope in his final moments, Claude couldn’t take that away from him. So he nodded, squeezed Hilda’s hand and leant into Lorenz’s touch at his shoulder.

“Okay,” he agreed, “I am. We are. Very lucky.”

As if that was all he needed to hear, Oswald closed his eyes. Claude panicked. He ripped himself away from Hilda and Lorenz to grab his grandfather’s hand where it lay limp—but still warm—on the bed and squeeze it. It was so frail, he was afraid it would break in his grip.

The dam broke instead. That dreaded sob fell from Claude’s throat and the words came spilling out after it. “Thank you. Thank you so much for—for everything, for giving me this chance, for trusting me, I’m…” the tears began to spill down his face, “I’m going to miss you.”

It wasn’t _fair,_ he thought, wasn’t fair that he had to keep losing people like this. First Teach, now his grandfather, some day Nader and his parents and every other mentor he’d ever had would die and leave him behind. For all the near-death experiences he’d had, this still scared Claude. A death he had no control over. A death he couldn’t prevent.

As Claude held his hand and choked back more sobs, his grandfather opened his eyes and looked at him one last time.

“No,” he said, “no, no, no… Claude, thank _you_.”

It was the last thing he would ever say.

Claude broke down. Hilda and Lorenz were at his sides again, catching him before he fell to his knees beside the bed. Hilda cried with him, but she was still able to brush his hair out of his face and the tears out of his eyes. Lorenz didn’t cry—which was good, because at least _one_ of them had to keep it together or this whole “Future of the Alliance” thing wasn’t going to work—but he did support his weight and kept him from crumpling to the floor.

They stayed with him like that until he wore himself out, until he had nothing left to cry. His throat was parched, and he felt empty. His grandfather’s hand had gone cold where his forehead still rested against it. The thought made him want to cry again.

At some point, Judith must have rounded the bed, because he finally looked up at the feeling of her ruffling his hair.

“Come on, Duke Riegan,” she said, as if he couldn’t see the tears staining her cheeks, “we’ve got work to do.”


End file.
